The Silences In Between
by Ellie 5192
Summary: Five-things fic: the five senses. One-shot. Est. Shandy. It's in the silences; the moments of stillness between asleep and awake; the serenity of a wordless touch; the hazy quiet in the glow of the aftermath. It's louder than any words, felt deeper than bone; it echoes on tingling skin and thrums with the heat of I Love You.


_(Who's been listening to You Are In Love by TSwifty on loop? You guessed it)_

 _Rated for some language and candid smutty things. Nothing too porny. I finished these little drabbles for Jana; I'm sorry you're feeling miserable hunny. I hope this makes you feel better._

 _Enjoy!_

 **The Silences In Between**

 _Five-things fic: the five senses. One-shot. Est Shandy._

 _It's in the silences; the moments of stillness between asleep and awake; the serenity of a wordless touch; the hazy quiet in the glow of the aftermath. It's louder than any words, felt deeper than bone; it echoes on tingling skin and thrums with the heat of I Love You._

 _ **Look**_

He catches her eye across the room; she's standing near the bar, a glass of sparkling in her hand and a secretive smile on her face. He gives her a look – one meant just for her, because she will know what it means when his eyebrow cocks just-so.

He makes his way over to her just as Patrice excuses herself to go find Provenza. His walk could be misconstrued at predatory; sharp eyes and heavy steps as he stalks between tables and around the edge of the dance floor, intent on reaching her. But she looks amused, and he knows she has read him correctly. Just as she always does; just as she teases him about, joking about cavemen and possessiveness as though she doesn't detest either attribute in a man. If he was serious she would stop him – tell him off – but it's the game that thrills them both; knowing he would step back if she said so, but also knowing that she won't.

She finishes the last sip of her drink before he reaches her, placing the glass on the bar by her elbow, and he can see her tongue moving in her mouth to dispel the taste a little, hoping it won't be fresh on her breath when he comes close.

She is always so thoughtful of him, unaware that it's not the wine he craves like the compulsion that it is, but instead the feel of her mouth on his. He is an addict and always will be; he just changed his drug of choice long ago.

When he reaches her side her gaze turns challenging. _Now what_ , it dares, having tracked him across the room.

But instead of meeting her half way, he softens; backs off. And she smiles in return, her flirtatious look turning tender. It never lasts long, this ridiculous little game they play; the pretence that they are not completely smitten. Hate-fucking was never the intent here – maybe years ago it might have been, in a different context, if he were the type to chase a hard-ass and she were brazen enough to pick up a colleague from a different division.

But no. Not now; not when she takes his hand without breaking eye contact and tugs him just a tiny bit closer with a smile.

 _ **Smell**_

The hairs on the back of her neck stand up as they often do when someone stands behind her. A sixth sense that tells her she's not alone. But within a moment she can tell it's him. Not because he touches her shoulder, or places a hand on her hip; they are in the middle of the Murder Room, and he wouldn't breach the boundaries they carefully erected in the beginning. He stays just far enough away for propriety, even though nobody else really cares; because she cares, and that's important too.

But she knows it's him despite a lack of touch because she gets a whiff of his aftershave, and a flickering image of their morning jumps to mind. She read somewhere – or was it Tao that told them? – that smell is the sense most linked to memory. She doesn't doubt it. She can vividly see his bathroom mirror, fogged from the steam of their showers, and Andy standing next to her with a towel around his waist while he dabs his face with the aftershave she bought him for Christmas.

As quickly as it comes the memory fades again, but not before her stomach tightens at the thought of being so familiar with a man that she can readily recall his particular scent. It's a personal thing – something only obtained by being so close to someone so frequently that their smell can permeate the air between. She likes it.

She briefly wonders if he feels the same about her. She has her usual two work perfumes and a third that is a little lighter – a bit fun and florally – that she wears on weekends or to family functions. She wonders if he has learned to pick her moods based on which bottle she picks up and spritzes at her chest of a morning. She wonders if he has a favourite, because he's the kind of man who can appreciate the aroma of Armani without calling it frivolous.

And then from behind her she hears him take a deep, unconscious breath, swaying just a fraction closer to her hair. And with a smile she thinks she has her answer.

 _ **Taste**_

She's always been emboldened by the erotic potential of food. A fine restaurant, low lighting, the perfect dress; she revels in the effect it can create if both people are in the mood to embrace it. The slow burn is titillating; there is a reason she made him date her properly, after all.

But there is something far more intimate about cooking together at home.

She likes cooking – rarely has the time to indulge in extravagant meals anymore, but enjoys it all the same. And she loves that he does too.

They are standing together by the stove in his kitchen, dressed in matching jeans, him in a neat shirt, and her in the white turtleneck and barefoot. He's teaching her to make egg yolk ravioli from scratch, with sage and truffle jus. She almost sighs in utter bliss at the thought. They tried it at a nice restaurant once, and he convinced her that he could do it himself at home. A few weeks and a healthy dose of determination later and he's proving that he is true to his word; always a food enthusiast, he is hell-bent on making this dish perfect.

She has no complaints, especially when he gets a teaspoon, dips it in the shallow skillet, and then holds the spoon to her mouth, his hand cupped underneath. The large hand-rolled ravioli boils gently in the other pot, almost done. She lets him guide the spoon to her lips, her tongue darting out just before she divests the spoon of every last drop of jus. The balance of flavours explodes behind her eyes when her lids close; she's always been a sucker for white truffle, and with the perfect mix of sage, salt and – is that parsley? When did he sneak that in there? – she can't help but let out a noise of contentment.

 _Good?_ he asks, quite unnecessarily, a grin on his face. She gives him a look, makes a joke about marrying the recipe, and ignores his laughter when she takes the spoon from his hand and steals another drop.

The taste of white truffle still tingles on her tongue when he kisses her over their empty plates, the candlelight flickering, and a soft _happy anniversary_ exchanged between them.

 _ **Hear**_

She's not a talker in bed. Not that he had any expectations one way or the other; he didn't want to fill his mind with fantasies when reality was just within his grasp. But for all she expresses herself during the heat of a moment, she doesn't say much in the _after_ , when his fingers get busy tracing gentle lines across her back or his mouth kisses a trail down her sternum to her bellybutton.

Instead she hums.

Tiny, sweet little noises that could be mistaken as accidental, except that she's so deliberate in everything that he finds it hard to believe she doesn't know exactly what she's doing, even when they are sated and their muscles relax under sweat-stained skin.

The noises are as varied as they are expressive. Low and deep where she might have said _that feels nice_ , his thumbs digging into the knots in her shoulders just a little harder, where her tension tends to gather. High and reedy when he runs an appreciative hand across the inside of her thigh before lifting it higher over his waist, the both of them hanging on to the lingering mutual feeling even as she starts to fall asleep tucked into his side. Light and airy when he kisses his way from her hair to her lips, and everything in between.

He pours his heart out as his body shows her he means it. Later, if it's the morning, they talk about the rest of their day; if it's the night they fall asleep tangled, with words of love muttered between them. He whispers sweet-nothings against her skin, a habit he's had with every lover, because sex is one of the only times he's this open with anybody and with her it's no different, even though she's different in every way. He likes to talk to her just to let her know he's there, with her.

But she doesn't often reply, unless he asks a question that requires it. Instead she hums, her arsenal as varied as the English language, and he finds it doesn't matter at all because he still understands.

 _ **Touch**_

A single tear rolls down her cheek; far too cliché for her liking, she thinks, as she dabs it away with his handkerchief. But even so, her emotions get the better of her as they take a seat side-by-side in the church, next to the aisle in the second row. The organ stops its slow tune, and the hum dies down as the priest approaches the front.

Andy sits on the edge of the seat – squirreled as far away from Jack as they can be while sharing a pew – and Rusty sits on her other side. Jack's brother, his wife, and their two daughters all provide further buffer, neutral parties at least where Rusty is concerned.

Ricky would have been ideal sitting between them all, but instead he sits with the rest of the groomsmen on the other side at the front. He was too busy escorting his sister down the aisle to worry about idiotic family politics via seat allocation.

Which is when the tears had started, if she's being honest; watching the two of them make their way closer.

How fitting that the man to usher Emily from girlhood to womanhood is the man who shared that journey with her the closest; not her father, but the boy she taught to climb on open draws to reach the cookies on the bench; the boy who made her a batch many years later after her first teenage heartbreak. The young man who called her every day in that first month she moved to the East coast.

Another tear slides down Sharon's cheek and she promptly wipes it away – she deliberately didn't mascara her bottom lashes for this exact reason.

She can feel Andy sneak a look at her, but she can't return it. If she looks at him, she knows it will make her cry more – she shared his daughter's wedding with him, and now here he is five years later returning the favour, granted in very different circumstances. The journey they have been on since, and the slow blending of their families, and now in this church they are about to embrace another family who sit just across the aisle…

No, she can't look back at him. Not if she wants to hold it together a little bit longer.

He must know that though; she can practically feel him smiling at her.

Instead, he reaches his hand out and lays it on her thigh, palm up and fingers open. Without looking – god, even just looking at his outreached hand right now will break her, what with Emily taking Tim's hands in her own in front of the priest – she places her hand in his and laces their fingers tightly, squeezing in thanks, leaving their hands resting in her lap. He squeezes back in silent support, which also makes her cry.

Oh, who is she kidding. She was going to be a mess today no matter what.

It's why he bothered to line his pockets with handkerchiefs in the first place.

No matter; she dabs her eyes again and hears him breath out heavily – huffing a laugh in her direction, she thinks.

She just pats the top of their joined hands and sighs, watching her baby turn the next page in her story, repeating words she remembers all too well, and promises that had been broken – promises Andy has never made because he knows better, but that he tries to keep anyway. Sharon just hopes she's given her children enough love and support that they will navigate love and marriage better than she did with their father; she doesn't want them repeating her own missteps, even though Emily's relationship is vastly different from her parent's.

Then again, thinks Sharon, feeling Andy's thumb gently stroke hers in comfort, not all of her choices were a poor example. Maybe there is hope for them all yet. And if not hope, then at least a little love in between.


End file.
